5. A Final Preparation
A Final Preparation
Katerina Romanov
The Metropol Veranda had always been one of my preferred places for private meetings.
Not just because of the food, which I loved, but because discretion had become something of an art there.
Tucked behind the restored facade of the historic Metropol Hotel, the terrace overlooked a quiet courtyard rather than the street.
White stone columns framed the view, softened by climbing ivy that had survived generations of Moscow winters.
Even now, fresh flowers sat neatly arranged between polished brass lanterns, and every waiter understood the absolute value of pretending to be deaf.
Power had always been drawn to beautiful places.
I arrived precisely three minutes before noon, my heels clicking softly against the stone as the ma?tre d’ inclined his head with familiarity.
“Mrs. Romanov.”
“I’ll find the table,” I said with a raise of my hand. He didn’t argue.
My eyes swept across the veranda and stopped immediately.
Zhenya was already seated. That alone was enough to give me pause.
My son had inherited many things from his father, but punctuality was not one of them; if a meeting began at twelve, Zhenya considered arriving at twelve entirely acceptable.
Five minutes late was merely traffic, and ten minutes late meant someone else had failed to plan properly.
Arriving early usually meant he hadn’t slept.
He wore a beige three-piece suit—perfectly tailored as always, though today’s choice lacked its usual crisp precision. His tie sat a fraction looser than I was accustomed to seeing, and there were bags beneath his eyes that no amount of expensive tailoring could disguise.
He stood as I approached. “Mother.”
“Zhenya.”
He kissed my cheek before pulling out my chair. It was polite—his father had taught him that much before disappearing from our lives.
I sat opposite him, and for a moment, neither of us spoke. A waiter appeared almost instantly, taking my order for Earl Grey and Zhenya’s for white wine before vanishing just as quickly. Only then did I truly study my son. He looked physically exhausted.
“I’ve spoken to Pavel,” I began.
“And?”
“He refused financial compensation. He has asked after Nikolai more times than I care to count, but I assured him they’ll see each other at or after the burial.”
“That isn’t surprising,” Zhenya said. “Pavel has always possessed an inconvenient amount of pride.”
“He did make one request,” I continued.
Zhenya leaned back slightly. “What?”
“That Nikolai be left alone. He believes the publicity surrounding the funeral will overwhelm him.”
Zhenya turned his eyes toward the courtyard beyond the terrace. “It already has.” There was something in his voice I couldn’t quite place—not frustration, certainly not regret. After a long pause, he added, “He came back.”
I observed him carefully. “So Lev informed me.”
“No.” His blue eyes finally met mine. “Nikolai didn’t.”
I frowned. “What exactly are you trying to tell me?”
He lapsed into silence, remaining quiet long enough for the waiter to return with our drinks and slip away once more. Zhenya waited until the wine was placed before him to speak again.
“The man who walked back into the penthouse wasn’t Nikolai.”
I simply stared at him. “Explain.”
He wrapped both hands around his wine glass without making a move to drink it. “When Nikolai disappeared, I located a Dr. Bozheva, his treating psychotherapist.” There was a calculated shift in his voice, as though he were gauging the exact weight of the truth he was about to drop.
“She confirmed that Nikolai has Dissociative Identity Disorder.”
I stared at him, genuinely speechless. “No,” I said quietly.
“Yes. He was diagnosed at eighteen.”
The ambient noise of the veranda faded into nothing. I had spent months observing that boy—his quiet manners, his careful speech, and the way he seemed to carry invisible weight without ever asking anyone else to shoulder it. Never once had I considered this.
“When he learned about his grandmother,” Zhenya continued, “the shock was enough to trigger another personality.”
Another personality. The words sounded utterly impossible.
“And this… personality returned instead?”
He nodded. “His name is Fyodor.”
The name lingered between us like smoke.
“How long have you known?” I asked.
“A few days.”
“And you’ve been keeping this from me?”
“I wanted to understand it first.”
I studied him intensely. “You’re telling me the man currently living in your penthouse isn’t Nikolai.”
“He isn’t, but he also isn’t a stranger,” Zhenya said, offering a curious answer before looking down into his untouched wine. “He remembers everything—every conversation, every person. He just doesn’t believe any of it belongs to him.”
“How is he?” The question escaped before I had time to reconsider it.
Zhenya looked up, a faint, fleeting smile touching his lips. “Tired. He insists everything he does is for Nikolai, yet somehow I keep ending up with a cup of tea in my hands.”
He seemed almost pleased by the thought, though I offered no response. I folded my gloves neatly onto the table instead.
“Then Saturday becomes even more important.”
“It already was.”
Neither of us spoke for a moment, listening instead to the steady rhythm of the courtyard fountain below. After a beat, I lifted my teacup.
“The invitations have all been sent out.”
“And Dmitry?”
“He arrived in Moscow this morning.”
“Mikhail?” Zhenya’s expression didn’t flicker.
“He arrives tomorrow.”
“Wonderful. The Wolves gather once again,” He murmured, his fingers settling lightly against the transparent glass. “Exactly where I want them.”
I set my cup back onto its saucer. “The priest has completed the final arrangements. The church service will begin promptly at nine, and from there, we’ll proceed to Vagankovo.”
He nodded once. “The press?”
“They’ll be held outside the gates.”
“Security?”
“Twice what we originally planned.”
He smiled.
“I’d already instructed Lev to triple it.”
I looked at my son for a long moment. Some days ago, I would have called that reaction excessive; today, it struck me as barely sufficient.
“You’re planning something.”
“I’m ensuring nothing interrupts her burial.”
The tea between my hands had begun to cool, and so had the afternoon. Soft, silent snow had started falling over the courtyard, as though Moscow itself had finally begun to mourn.
* * *
Zhenya Romanov
The meeting at the Metropol ended an hour later.
Lev was already waiting beside the sedan when I stepped out beneath the hotel’s stone portico, reaching for the rear passenger door, but I extended my hand instead.
“The keys.”
He paused. “I can drive, sir.”
“I know.”
The keys landed in my palm without another word.
“I’ll call when I’m finished.”
He gave a brief, reluctant nod. “Yes, sir.”
I slid into the driver’s seat, the engine turning over with a quiet purr before I eased the car away from the curb.
For the first ten minutes, I simply drove—no destination announced, no phone calls made.
The city moved around me in its usual rhythm: office workers crossing intersections, buses pulling away from crowded stops, and cafés beginning their lunch service. It was ordinary, almost peaceful.
Eventually, I turned off the main road, then again, as the buildings grew older and less polished until the Romanov Security Administration building came into view.
From the street, it looked like any other office block, but the men who entered were either released quietly or forgotten entirely.
The security barrier lifted without question.
I parked underground and let the elevator carry me down another two levels into a silent corridor of bare granite walls, steel doors, and harsh fluorescent lights that flattened everything beneath them.
Two men were waiting outside the final room, both straightening immediately as I approached.
“Mr. Romanov.”
I acknowledged them with a slight nod before one unlocked the outer security door and the second disengaged the heavier lock beyond it. Neither spoke again as the steel door swung inward.
The room was exactly as I remembered: small, windowless, and clinical. The floor had been scrubbed clean countless times over the years, though faint stains remained trapped deep inside the concrete itself, draining toward the center.
One metal chair stood against the wall, but Inessa wasn’t using it. She sat on the floor instead, one ankle secured by a heavy restraint fixed into the floor.
For several seconds, I simply looked at her.
She had changed. The woman who had walked into my penthouse wearing expensive perfume and immaculate makeup had completely disappeared; her cheeks had hollowed, dark circles framed her exhausted eyes, and her lips were cracked and dry.
Small cuts and fading bruises marked her forearms where she’d fought the restraints during the first few nights, and fear had taken care of the rest.
The instant she saw me, she scrambled forward until the chain yanked hard against her ankle, dropping onto both knees.
“Zh… Zhenya…” Her voice splintered almost immediately. “I’m sorry. I swear I’m sorry! I never thought—I didn’t know—” She crawled another inch, her breath hitching. “I’ll tell you everything. I’ll tell you absolutely everything.”
I didn’t answer, keeping my eyes fixed on her as the silence stretched out. She kept talking, the words pouring out faster than thought. Apologies, excuses, broken promises—until the silence finally defeated her, leaving only quiet, ragged sobs.
I walked further into the room, stopping a few feet away. “You look different.”
She lowered her eyes. “I… I haven’t slept.”
“I know.”
“I can’t eat.”
“I’ve been told.”
She swallowed hard, her chest heaving. “…I thought you were going to kill me.”
A faint, icy smile cut across my lips as I glanced around the stark room. “If I intended to kill you, you wouldn’t have been waiting this long.”
She stopped breathing—just long enough for the air in the room to turn still.
I crouched until we were nearly eye level. “My quarrel with you ended the moment you told me who sent you. You’ve already served your purpose; now you’ll serve another.”
A flicker of fragile hope crossed her face, and I let it linger before taking it away completely.
“In two days,” I said, straightening my cuffs, “there’s somewhere I’d like you to be.”
She stared at me, bewildered. “I… I don’t understand. Where?”
“A memorial.”
The last of the color drained from her face.
“You’ll dress appropriately,” I added quietly, standing up as if the matter were already settled.
“Why?” she whispered, searching my face desperately for an answer that wasn’t there.
I turned toward the door because that question no longer belonged to her.
Outside, both guards were standing at attention. “Contact Lev.”
“Yes, sir.”
“He’ll arrange clothing. Make sure she’s presentable.”
One of the guards nodded, reaching for his radio. “Understood.”
I walked toward the elevator without looking back. Behind me, I could hear the locks click back into place and for a few seconds, the room remained quiet. Then came the sound of low, desperate weeping.
She had finally understood: whatever waited for her in two days scared her far more than that room ever could.